Renaissance
by Moonraykir
Summary: Maedhros, reborn from the Halls of Waiting at last, has one final important reunion to make. [No slash.]


The chiming of picked lute strings mingled with the notes of rustled leaves and the soft dropping of water from the fountain. Líriel paused in her playing to adjust a string. She smiled as she touched one of the intricately-carved tuning pegs: they had been a gift from a friend, the finest musician she had ever known, though she had not heard him play now for ages gone. Usually, the pegs held more true than those on any of her other lutes, but today they kept seeming to slip. It must be the change in the weather. Today was one of the first truly warm days of summer; soon it would be too hot to play in the garden and she would trade her afternoons for swimming or riding, and save her lute for the long evening meals at twilight under cool marble halls.

There; that sounded right. "Just _stay_," she breathed over the troublesome tuning peg, and picked up the song where she had paused. The tune, she realized, was one she had written long ago, when she had first learned to play. Makalaurë had helped her with the counterpoint, and his brother—she sighed a little, involuntarily— his brother had teasingly called them both "the songbirds." She threw a little flourish of ornamentation into the melody, as if to break memory's spell over her, then transitioned to a different tune.

She was lost in the technical demands of a fugue when she heard her name called behind her. Her fingers froze. She knew that voice—no, _had known_ it well. Líriel rose from the bench where she sat and turned.

"They told me I would find you here," said a tall elf with copper hair.

Líriel gasped and dropped the lute, which resounded with a musical plunk as the tall elf caught it with both hands. Stooped to save her instrument, his face was level with hers, and she discovered—to her own momentary surprise and relief—that his eyes were the same blue-grey eyes she remembered. She had been afraid, she realized, of meeting his eyes and finding someone she did not know, someone she could not love. It was true: there was no innocence left in his eyes. But he had lost that long ago, beginning even perhaps while she still knew him. Yet that innocence seemed replaced by something stronger, though what, she could not say.

"Russandol!" she cried and threw her arms around him. Her poor lute thumped to the grass at last as he returned her embrace.

She realized she was crying into his chest: her head barely reached his shoulder now that he had straightened once again. His head was bowed against hers and he may have been saying her name; at any rate, she felt his lips move against her brow.

"Thank the gods, you came back," she sighed, and released him. Stepping back, she grinned up at him through happy tears. His own smile was thoughtful, but no less genuine. "Russandol, you came back!" she repeated, exuberantly this time. Líriel whirled away from him in a dance of joy. As she circled back, he caught her hands, but instead of stopping her, he let himself be pulled into her dance. The two elves circled the garden several time in the artless dance of children before Líriel pulled Russandol to a halt and laughed breathlessly up at him.

"People told me I was a fool to wait for a Fëanorion, but I knew you'd come out all right," she gasped. "Well, I may have prayed for you. Once or twice." Her dismissive tone did not hide her true feeling, and Russandol guessed that "once or twice" was properly translated "every day."

"Thank you." He looked down at her hands in his. "I held a Silmaril in this hand," he lifted his left, tightened his hold for a moment, "and it burned me. I thought about that for a long time, in Mandos: how I had made myself unfit for the things I loved." He looked up, seeking something in her eyes. "In the end, it was love that drew me back from that despair and hatred, and shaped me into the man I should have been."

"I'm so glad," Líriel whispered, on the verge of joyful tears once more. She glanced down at his hands in hers. "They told me of how you lost your hand," she said tenderly, and lifted his hands, one by one, to kiss the palms. Regardless of what they had and hadn't done, his hands were just has she remembered: long-fingered, graceful, and strong.

Russandol flushed, and Líriel noted how well the color complemented his fair complexion and ruddy hair. She wasn't used to seeing him blush; she remembered how he had cultivated a noble bearing that was almost unflappable.

"Líriel," he said, graver now, "Forgive me."

She closed her grip on his hands to keep him from pulling his away.

He took a breath and continued, "Forgive me for the things I said that day. I was untender."  
"You're not the only one who said things you regret," Líriel sighed, and this time he had to keep her from pulling her hands from his. She colored at the memory of words that still pained her, echoes of accusations made to the one she loved. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

To her surprise, Russandol smiled. "I forgive you." His voice and expression were light, and Líriel understood, now, what she had seen in his eyes stronger than any guilt or innocence.

"And I forgive you," she promised.

He drew her to him and kissed her. The sun behind him turned his hair to flame, and Líriel found herself thinking wildly that she could happily die consumed by such fire.

"Lest you accuse me of acting impulsively," he said as he set her back on her feet, "I've been planning to do that for several thousand years."

"Russandol! When have you ever done anything impulsive?" Líriel countered in mock surprise. She reached up to straighten the copper circlet on his forehead, then tucked a strand of burning hair back behind his ear. "What did they call you in Middle-Earth?" she asked.

"Maedhros."

She laughed. "I like it. It suits you."

"Oh?" he asked, looping an arm around her waist and following her back to where he had dropped the lute.

"It's beautiful, but also. . . fierce. Maitimo," she explained, using his mother-name from which the Sindarin name derived.

He stooped to pick up her lute. "Brave words from a little songbird," he teased.

"This songbird can still beat your sorry ass at minstrelsy," she responded in kind.

Russandol shrugged. "I've been a little behind hand in my practicing lately."

Líriel snorted. "You're still _so bad_. It's a blessing you never set out to be a poet."

"It's never too late," he argued.

"Let's stick with music for now," Líriel insisted, laughing, and drew him down to sit with her on the marble bench. She helped him settle the lute in his arms, then sat back as he carefully placed his fingers on fretboard and strings. He smiled at her, then slowly but precisely began picking out the melody she had written with his brother a lifetime ago.

* * *

Author's note:

Maedhros (aka Maitimo, Russandol, Nelyafinwe, etc.) has long been my favorite character in all of Tolkien. His utter despair at the end of his life, that even Iluvatar would be unable to save him and his brother from the Oath that had become their curse, has always broken my heart. I'd also like to think that, if any of Feanor's son's made it out of the halls of Mandos to be reborn, Maedhros would have. I imagine it would have taken him a good long time, but he seems by far the most sensible of the bunch.

So, this little piece grew out of my desire to see him get a happy ending, at long last. I'm a romantic sap, so obviously a happy ending means getting the girl, too. But on a more serious note: Tolkien has said that Maedhros probably never married. This makes sense to me, because with his life dedicated to the Oath, I don't imagine him having the time or emotional freedom to fall in love, much less marry. At the same time, Tolkien indicates that marriage is the natural choice for most elves. So, I imagine Maedhros could have cared for someone in Valinor. I see him being too busy with his prince's duties to pursue the relationship fully, and then when he swears the Oath with his father and brothers, he finally gives up on the relationship entirely. That's my premise for this story.

Lastly, I really apologize for the pun, BUT: I have noticed that all men seem to love puns. And I figure elves are no exception, particularly when it comes to linguistically and rhetorically talented elves. Their puns are probably super learned, clever, and deadly. So there.


End file.
